


I Am Not Afraid To Keep On Living

by KilltheDJ



Category: Welcome to the Black Parade - My Chemical Romance (Song)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-04-20 10:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21967612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilltheDJ/pseuds/KilltheDJ
Summary: And through it all, the rise and fall, the bodies in the streets...We'll carry on!
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	I Am Not Afraid To Keep On Living

**Author's Note:**

> Yo! So this was mostly a writing exercise for me, so it's short, but lowkey I kinda really like it?

“I’m sorry.” 

The words faded out, lost to smoke, swirled down to the ground with the ash.

No one could hear the Parade Leader; not words, nothing to save the world.

The Parade Leader was a doll at a podium, spitting up lyrics with lost meanings, a complacency act before anything else. A pawn in a chess game, though meant to keep order. Meant to sing until lungs collapsed, until the Parade spanned miles.

The opening drumbeat of the next song began, lulling the Parade Leader into sing, just sing, the ash and the smog will go away with the musical notes.

But there was no relief from the filth in the air, a heavy, burning weight to anyone willing to march. 

It wasn’t a choice, though.

There was something about the Parade Leader’s voice; it was a staple of any good Parade Leader, any good pawn, the ability to lure in a crowd with a drawn-out note. To encourage undying loyalty with unbeating chests and dying breaths. 

“I’m sorry!” The Parade Leader shouted again, desperate for a message to finally be heard, desperate to hear a voice belonging to its owner for once and not the mangled notes of a centuries-old song. 

The Parade Guitarist - Rhythm Guitar, that is - turned ever-so-slightly from the carefully selected box, specifically there for a perfect guitar to stay pristine wading above miles of wreckage. 

It was when the Parade Leader met icy-blue to rival twisted gray eyes did it seem fitting to wonder - one day, one day, could this Parade stop?

Could this Parade fall, like the one before it, like the one before that?

The Black Parade, it was called. 

Before it, the Last Parade, though with a name as ironic as its own, the damage left was a matter none could laugh to. Destruction with a cause; a cause with no consequences to those who created it. 

Create to destroy. 

The wreckage, the desolation, the Hell - it was all the creation of the Last Parade. 

The Parade Leader couldn’t help but spit at the thought of the Last Parade. Somehow, the prisoners of a time before escaped. It took everything from the world, everything from paradise, everything from Purgatory to escape. 

And oh, how the Parade Leader longed for escape. 

Then again, maybe freedom was closer than expected; the only color seen in this hellscape had been a grayscale. 

And the Rhythm Guitarist’s eyes were ice blue. 

The next intermission, the Parade Leader turned to examine the other Parade Members. The Drummer, the Bassist, the Lead Guitarist. 

There was a weighted consequence for ignoring protocol, and the Parade Leader looking away from the pathway the Parade followed was surely one of them.

Still, the need to search for another hint of color was more important. 

It was possible the Parade Leader had more free will than the others; the term of singer always lasted longest, though years blurred together as time passed and a clock was nothing but a dream. 

Glancing around, it was possible one of these Parade Members used to be someone important. Important to the Parade Leader, anyway, but with the ghoulish make-up permanently etched into dead skin made it impossible to tell which one, if any, was recognizable. 

Nevertheless, none looked up. Most likely an act of self-savior, to keep from the repercussions of a simple action such as looking up.

The eyes always marked the next Parade Members; it was an offhand thought, impossible to tell the origins of, and it startled the Parade Leader to where the opening line of the next song was stuttered, off-tune and off-beat. 

When this journey came to an end, there was going to be much to own up to and face. It might be a mirror reflecting the ghoul that had become of the dead. 

_

_ “Now I know, that I can’t make you stay, but where’s your heart?” ___

_ _The Parade halted. __

_ _The Parade Leader grinned, the microphone clutched so tightly the skin of pallor, cracked hands turning white rather than the usual gray. _ _

_ __ _

_ _

_ “But where’s your heart?” _

_ __ _

_ __ _

The Parade Marchers had less than an inkling of direction, but an impending sense of doom fell over the congregation of souls like a blanket; a cold, slithering feeling of apocalypse, draped across the Parade Leader’s shoulders. 

But now was not the time to back down. The apocalypse was worn on marching band uniform shoulders with pride, like a crown to a rusty throne. 

And slowly, slowly, a bassline broke the silence; the only noise was the panting of the Parade Leader. A Leader had to breathe, though Marchers and Members did not. 

The bassline wasn’t overly simple, but it wasn’t overly complicated, either, and the Parade Leader found that it didn’t take an ounce of effort to look over at the Member in question - to look at shocking hazel eyes staring dead ahead. 

Then it was a drum beat. 

While a crown was a weighted anchor, an apocalypse - an apocalypse in a place like this was a welcome home to the stars - was a legacy the Parade Leader was proud to carry.

But there was no Parade Leader anymore. 

In fact, and let this be a set of Famous Last Words - 

_ “I am not afraid to walk this world alone!” ___

_ __ _

_ __ _

But as the guitar kicks in - too late, too far into the middle of the song that had been building and building and bubbling underneath ash-cracked skin and dust lungs -, the Ex-Parade Leader knows for certain one thing... 

_ _ _The Black Parade has fallen._ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> ...As you can tell the goal was to not use pronouns! What'cha think? (I say this on the end of everything... oh well.)


End file.
